


your word is only your bond if they catch you

by thermodynamicActivity (chlorinetrifluoride)



Series: like the cat, i have nine times to die [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Genderqueer Character, Humanstuck, New York City, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-03 00:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15807729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chlorinetrifluoride/pseuds/thermodynamicActivity
Summary: Several women, from disparate fields, put their heads together and combine knowledge in an effort to unravel the latest string of murders plaguing New York City's streets. Still, even as they uncover clues regarding motives and identities, the other side tracks down information about those pursuing them with similar ability.In the end, who will triumph?Is this even the sort of game that can be clearly won?





	your word is only your bond if they catch you

**Author's Note:**

> after i watched enough killing eve, i and i got the fic ides that refused to go away. so here i am, with yet another fic that i'll probably end up updating thrice a year, and likely not finishing until sometime after 2021. this is not a collegestuck fic in the least, but borrows from collegstuck bits of headcanon and characterization for certain protagonists and antagonists.
> 
> series title taken from sylvia plath's ["lady lazarus"](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49000/lady-lazarus), story and chapter titles taken from amrit brar's "shitty horoscopes".
> 
> additional characters, pairings, tags, and warnings to be added - along with upping the rating - as the story progresses.
> 
> oh, since doc scratch's text color is white, you're probably going to have to highlight it in order to read his conversation with rose, and, in general, going forward.

**_27_ _August 2018 - Rosario Lalonde_ **

You have a new assignment.

You let a low sound of anger, and scream into one of the pillows on your bed for a while.

It’s not even been a day since the last one. You would have liked to go to sleep early tonight. You read the target’s information over, as you stir creamer into your morning coffee.

This one’s an art dealer. One who expressed utmost respect and gratitude to your employer for his assistance in procuring a valuable artifact from Burkina Faso. The Met paid handsomely for it.

And yet, your employer has not seen a dime of the profits. Strange way for a thankful man to act, no? Either you’ll recover your employer’s fair share, or you’ll kill the art dealer where he stands.

He lives in a building not far from Columbus Circle, all slick chrome and high-rise angularity.

You’ll have to dress well, and play your part carefully, if you plan to gain entry.

Thanks to your years of modeling, you have more than a few appropriate pieces in your closet, and you know how wear them all with an air of self-assured ease.

You do one final close reading of the man’s information, as if you might be tested on it at some point, and memorize the pictures of him that you’ve been given.

It’s a new day.

You have to be downtown by 10 AM for your final shoot before NYC Fashion Week. 

No time to lose, then.

You pull your dresser away from the wall, to reveal a safe.

You quickly input the combination, and retrieve a revolver, which you drop into your purse. There aren’t any metal detectors at your job. You’ll be fine.

You pick up one of the many unused burner phones you keep behind your bed, turn it on, and dash away a message to Scratch’s latest phone number.

Encounter will take place at no later than 23:00, you think. You don’t send that verbatim in a text, though. The possibility of intercepting and prying eyes hangs in the air.

TT: I’ll be at the club around 11?  
00: Excellent.  
00: Do not forget to take your sister with you, though.  
00: I have faith in you.  
00: You have been two of my best students.

You roll your eyes. Serket’s not your sister, not really.

If your paltry memories of the past are any indication, you had a real sister at one point, a sister who was definitely not Vriska Serket.

TT: I am fully aware that my performance has been more than satisfactory without you trying to manipulate me by parceling out infrequent compliments.  
00: That is most excellent to hear.  
TT: Moreover, my sister is weak. Does not listen to reason. I will meet up with my friend far more easily if we are not together.  
00: You will follow my instructions to the letter. Intelligent as you are, I am privy to more information than you.  
00: Should you two fail me, I will invoke the Muse.

You know next to nothing about the girl he calls “Muse”, other than the fact that she is far more effective at fulfilling objectives than you or Vriska could ever dream of being. Few people actually scare you, but Muse is one of them.

TT: We will not fail you.  
TT: I will ensure Vriska obeys your instructions, as will I. We would not dream of failing.  
00: I believe that much, at least.

Maybe, after you secure your target, you’ll find a way to throw Vriska off a building, or in front of a train. You’ve known her for the last decade and a half, even trained alongside her, and you still don’t know what Scratch sees in her.

As far as you’re aware, Vriska finished your last assignment yesterday evening.

However, instead of weighing down the target down with rocks and leaving his remains to bob around in the marshy swamps of Far Rockaway, she dumped him in a park. Again. Careless. Absolutely careless.

It’s only a matter of time before law enforcement finds his body. And if she’s left any fingerprints they can run against the database, she’s as good as done.

Unlike you, she actually has a criminal record. Petty larceny and assault back in the day, all of it allegedly sealed when she turned eighteen, but you doubt the cops actually do that.

You don’t trust Vriska. Should she ever be hauled in by the authorities, you’re almost certain she’ll drop all kinds of information about her fellow “sisters” in an effort to avoid jail time.

Her demise would be a backhanded mercy to her, and quite convenient for you and Scratch, at least from your point of view. But until you can find a way to be rid of her, and make it look accidental, you’re stuck.

_Fuck your life._

* * *

 

_**27 August 2018 - Latula Pyrope** _

You awaken a little before eight in the morning with all the verve of roadkill, squinting against the light streaming through your windows.

Hangovers are uniformly godawful. However, this is no mere hangover. This is war. Your body has decided to attack you for the poor decisions you made last night, when everyone in your precinct went out for drinks, and you ended up chugging Fireball whiskey.

By all accounts, your vengeful body is winning.

You peel back the layers of comforter, blanket, and sheet that kept you warm in the night, after your spouse dialed back the thermostat to 58 degrees Fahrenheit.

You wiggle your frozen toes, sit up, and sigh. Beside you, Mituna snores deep and even.

You throw an arm around their waist and kiss them on the cheek, acutely aware of their slow, sleepy movements.

“Izzit my birthday?” they ask, their eyes still shut.

“You wish.”

You kiss them on the mouth, and they kiss eagerly back. A flicker of arousal sparks deep in your gut.

They make a few sleepy noises, roll over, and return to their slumber.

Welp. No morning sex, then.

You chug a can of Red Bull, shower, and put on your uniform.

You tip-toe back into your room, pick up Mituna’s phone, and input the passcode.

You open their clock app, and set an alarm to wake them up at 10:30, so they’re not late for their shift at Gamestop.

Then, after putting on eyeliner and a coat of red lipstick, you give your unread texts a cursory glance. Several from your fiance(e), three from your cousin, and three more from apocalypseAdjacent.

You groan inwardly. If your partner on the force and fellow detective is contacting you so early, it cannot be for anything good.

AA: shit you were right  
AA: tompkins sqare park late 30s male died within last 3 ahr  
AA: contacting medcal examiner 

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Some niggling intuition told you there’d be another body there the near future, but you’d sort of hoped you were wrong. This is a lot to take in so early.

You wish Damara were physically here, so you could hear her swear up and down about this turn of events, and lay into you for all but predicting something like this would happen. That might make you feel better.

You put out Mituna’s morning meds on the counter, leave a bit of breakfast for them in the refrigerator, and spare a final look at your closed bedroom door.

You walk out of your apartment, out of your building, and step into the hazy, humid Queens morning, willing the Q65 bus to show up on time for once.

* * *

  _ **27 August 2018 - Porrim Maryam**_

Your phone goes off at half past six.

You almost want to throw it at the wall.

You only clocked out of the hospital at 10 PM, why are they making you come in so early?

There are other emergency medicine residents, aren’t there?

You check your schedule - just updated an hour ago - and find that you’re set to be on call for roughly the next two millennia. Today must be your lucky day, for some value of luck.

You rouse the person with whom you spent the night, one pretty, vivacious young woman named Roxanne.

You met her at a gay club not far from Houston St.

She calls you a not undeserved number of four letter words for waking her up.

“Really sorry about this,” you tell her, and you are. You’d hoped to make her breakfast, and see her to work. Then later, maybe you two could have had slow sex, and watched the last season of Sense8 before any supervisor remembered your existence for long enough to call you in. “I have to get to work, Roxy. Just found out.”

“I was _sleeping,”_ she protests, dragging out the syllables of the last word.

“Yeah, me too. But work’s work,” you reply. “Besides, don’t you have to teach today?”

She groans, and nods.

One of the new things you learned about Roxanne - whom you have seen a few times at Eunoia - aside from her attraction to women who can pull off dancing in five inch pumps and skimpy minidresses for half the night, was her line of work.

She’s an adjunct professor of Chemistry at a nearby college.

That’s part of the reason why you invited her to spend the night with you, along with her sparkling vivacity.

You live on E72nd Street and 2nd Avenue, a few minutes away from the hospital at which you’re doing your residency.

Meanwhile, her school’s on E68th and Lexington Avenue.

It’s a perfect arrangement, at least as perfect as an arrangement with a woman in your string of one night stands can go.

She even high-fived you after you pointed out your apartment to her, repeatedly thanking you for letting her stay somewhere so close to her job.

You doubt there will be any such high fives right now, though.

Roxanne takes one look at the light, and pulls the covers back over her face.

You force a glass of water and a few acetaminophen on her.

After a little more whining, she admits that you’re right, yes, she does have an early morning class to teach. She pads into your bathroom and strips, but not before inviting you to shower with her, her warm hand on one of your hips.

“Maybe another time,” you say.

She raises a skeptical eyebrow at you.

“Whatever you say, doctor,” she replies, a smug little smirk on her face.

Cheeky thing, this one. Just maybe you’ll keep her around for a bit. You know a great deal about relationships. In fact, you’re exceptional at ending them - immersing yourself into work and ignoring your partner until they take the hint and drift away.

Still, you do not know a damn thing about peroxide blonde women who don’t yet seem particularly eager to run for the hills.

You pop a Ritalin and start making coffee while she showers. You add a packet of Equal to your black coffee, and drain half the large cup.

Once you’re sufficiently caffeinated, you get dressed.

Black bra, trimmed in gold, with underwear to match. Green short-sleeved button-down tucked into a black pencil skirt. As an afterthought, you pull some looser clothes out of your bedroom drawer for Roxanne to wear to work, since you doubt she can teach in the skin-tight indigo dress she’d worn in the club last night.

After you’ve applied your makeup and washed your hands twice, you pull your white coat off the hook in your room, and put it on.

Then, you start wondering what exactly Roxanne’s doing in your bathroom. The shower’s still running. No way does it take someone with short, bobbed hair that long to get clean.

You glance at the clock in your kitchen and make an annoyed, impatient sound.

You don’t have time for this. You knock once, curt, on the door.

“Yeah?” she asks. “Come in.”

You do.

She opens the shower curtain and pops her head out, shampoo lathered so liberally into her blonde hair that it’s become a mass of white suds. She catches sight of your expression and ducks, sheepishly.

“Sorry for holding you up,” she says. “Mighta sat down and fallen asleep for a few.”

“No problem,” you reply.

You walk out of the bathroom, out of your apartment, and into the hallway. You find your spare set of keys and come back inside. Another knock on the bathroom door.

“What now?” she asks, before telling you to come in.

You put the set of keys down on the bathroom sink, and hang the the clothes you’re leaving for her in the bathroom, making sure she sees everything.

“I have to get to work, okay?” you say. “Lock up behind you when you leave?”

Maybe you shouldn’t trust someone you met a mere three weeks ago, have encountered fewer times than you can count on one hand, and only just invited back to your place last night, but it doesn’t seem as if you have a choice.

Not if you don’t want to be late.

“Sure,” Roxanne says, almost apologetically. “No problem.”

You’re on your way out the door when she calls after you.

“See you later, Porrim?” she asks, wearing one of your towels, hope written across her features.

You give a heavy shrug.

You haven’t figured “later” out yet. But you’re going to have to meet up with her at some point, if only to retrieve your keys.

“Definitely. See you around,” you reply, stomach full of butterflies.

* * *

_**27 August 2018 - Aradia Megido** _

You’ve been up since ten after five, ensuring this week’s worth of pre-prepared meals you make on Sunday night - and occasionally on Monday morning - have been put into the freezer.

You root through the fridge until you find a can of Coca-Cola, pop the top, and greedily gulp down half its contents. Your phone pings. You input your passcode and check your messages.

GA: I’m go+ing to+ be o+n call again starting to+day.  
AA: y0u s0und s0 excited.  
GA: I do+n’t think that’s really the right wo+rd.  
GA: Wanna get breakfast at that place o+n 1st and 72nd befo+re I go+ in?

You can’t help but feel like Dr. Maryam’s only really interested in you because she’s trying to set you up with a pathology technician you supervise. To be fair, his muscles have muscles, and he’s shyer than a baby deer. You rather like him, and his unfailingly polite, serious ways. You think he’s attractive, if a little young. Twenty-seven to your thirty-six.

Nevertheless you admire and respect Dr. Maryam, her penchant for meddling in your life aside.

She’s one of the few people who regularly checks on you, aside from a scant number of blood relatives, and a girl you went to college with about a thousand years ago.

AA: 0f c0urse.  
AA: y0u are buying th0ugh.  
GA: I’ll o+rder a pitcher of co+ke and a stack o+f almo+st blackened to+ast fo+r yo+u.  
GA: So+und go+o+d?  
AA: abs0lutely fine as l0ng as y0u remember t0 eat as well.

You’re not exactly popular, your profession being what it is. Since you largely prefer the dead to the living, this does not faze you much.

Then, your phone pings once more, but it’s not Dr. Maryam replying.

It’s someone else entirely.

AA: was investigate altercation 9th pct area  
AA: tompkins sq park  
AA: late 30s man blunt force head trauma  
AA: mult stab wounds  
AA: died less than 8 hrs ago maybe  
AA: unclear cause motive and no goddamn suspects yet  
AA: when i try getting info junkie dipshit fucks quiet as usual  
AA: u can look him over?  


One day, your step-sister will master writing vaguely grammatically correct text messages, but probably not today.

AA: i need an0ther medical pr0fessi0nal t0 pr0n0unce him first.

AA: got it  
AA: medics taking him to bellvue  
AA: 2nd homicide in park this week similar presentation

AA: 0h w0w.  
AA: what did latula have t0 say ab0ut all this when she saw it? 0_0

AA: was not working with her  
AA: bitch call in sick last night  
AA: messaged her no response yet

AA: i see.

That’s surprising. Latula Pyrope has not taken a sick or vacation day ever, as far as you’re aware. Although, considering that, she’s probably overdue for one. Good for her, finally taking some time off.

AA: thanks for help  
AA: latula going to fucking flip her lid when she comes in

AA: m0re than likely 0_0

You pin your headscarf into place, don your white coat, and let out an exasperated exhale.

Your name is Aradia Megido, you are a medical examiner, and if this morning has been any indication, today is going to be one hell of a long day.


End file.
